


Recalescent

by Flinched



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mild Blood, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-19 08:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29747541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flinched/pseuds/Flinched
Summary: n. (Metallurgy) a sudden spontaneous increase in the temperature of cooling iron resulting from an exothermic change in crystal structure occurring at a particular temperature.Veld is about ready to retire; he figures he's seen it all. That is, until he has thepleasureof working on a contract with Vincent Valentine. Spy/Assassin!AUFor the FFVII: Secret Spring 2021
Relationships: Vincent Valentine/Veld
Comments: 7
Kudos: 8
Collections: FFVII Secret Spring





	Recalescent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [j_marquis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/j_marquis/gifts).



> Hi! 
> 
> I really hope you enjoy this - I absolutely loved your prompts and thoroughly enjoyed bringing this one to life. (I may very well give them a crack in future!) I have never gone anywhere near this pairing before so it was nice to try something new. :D
> 
> Disclaimer: I've taken some, shall we say, _artistic_ liberties here and there... mainly the entire layout/content of the Golden Saucer.

* * *

_Recalescent:_

_n. (Metallurgy) a sudden spontaneous increase in the temperature of cooling iron resulting from an exothermic change in crystal structure occurring at a particular temperature._

* * *

It’s too hot. 

Veld can feel beads of sweat trickling down his side and moisture dampening the back of his, now open, shirt. He pushes his sunglasses back up from where they have slipped down the bridge of his nose as he scopes out the beach, ignoring the feeling of sand sticking in between his toes. It doesn’t matter what he wears, he always ends up dusting out his clothes and brushing grains from his feet in a cheap hotel sink at the end of the day. 

The sun is as scornful and unrelenting as it has always been. If he wasn’t sitting under the shade of the palm trees, Veld’s forehead and chest would be long past pink. When he eventually has enough of this life and retires, he imagines he’ll be the type to have an all year round ‘summer’ tan, the type built from habitual afternoon beers on the porch and barbeques for one in the back garden.

For the sake of his cover, he’s in open toe sandals and a duck egg blue shirt featuring a loud flamingo print which ironically helps him blend in with the inhabitants on the beach. It’s a far stretch from his crisp black suit he’s lived in for the past two decades. 

The feeling of a crisp cotton collar against his neck and the weight of a jacket on his shoulders every morning grounds him and gives a sense of purpose. Once he’s stepped into his dress shoes, his personal opinion takes a back seat and the job takes precedence. His suit is his armour. 

Arguably, an outside perspective might say that the puckered scar running from mid-cheek to jaw on his left hand side evidences that it has done a poor job in protecting him.

Perhaps the fact casual wear makes him feel so uncomfortable reveals something about his lifestyle, but Veld doesn’t allow himself to contemplate it further. It’s a small consolation that this should be his last day on the job. The entire outfit can be burned and he can be out of this cesspit of a town by the morning.

The contract is on a man in his mid twenties; a corporate middle manager who has bitten off more than he can ever hope to handle. This  _ nobody _ (in the grand scheme of things) is facilitating the sale of company-owned military weapons. Unfortunately, said company dominates the market for both legitimate sales and any ‘off the books’ trading.

Tonight is planned to be the date of his target’s first sale. His employer wants to cut the head off the snake publicly and of course more importantly, send a message to anyone who is paying attention. 

You cannot hide from ShinRa. 

Veld isn’t overly concerned that he hasn’t engaged the target yet. They will be partying it up on a yacht just off the shoreline of the beach at some point in the afternoon, no doubt surrounded by a number of self-involved narcissists looking for free drugs and alcohol.

It’s not Veld’s idea of a good time, but who is he to judge? At the very least, the target’s last hours will be spent in the illusion that their dream of riches has been achieved.

“I have a proposition that may interest you.” 

The softly spoken voice breaks his concentration. Veld stiffens and glances to his left, finding a shadow, covered in deep red cloth pale skin. Closer inspection reveals a mess of dark hair, and a heavy burgundy cloak that is undoubtedly absorbing the heat. How is this man not covered in sweat? Veld feels uncomfortable just looking at him. 

He’s a dark blight against the haze of amber that is the beach.

Regardless of whatever this ‘proposition’ is, it needs to disappear as quickly as possible, with minimal noise.The very act of being next to this man draws more attention to him than he would want on any job, but especially in Costa Del Sol, the number one holiday destination for families and D-list celebrities alike. 

“Not interested,” Veld tells him, waving him off flippantly and reaching down to grab his beer bottle from where it’s wedged in the sand next to him, “I don’t do drugs.”

“Nor I.” 

Veld pointedly ignores the man beside him, although can still feel the weight of assessment on his profile. 

“I have not approached you by chance. You are Veld, are you not,” the man questions without inflection.

Veld feels a prickle of unease at his nape from being so casually recognised and readjusts his grip on the bottle so that he is able to retaliate if needed. He continues to stare at the beach in silence. 

Until it becomes clear that this man has no intention of leaving without a response.

“I am,” Veld eventually replies and goes to drink the last of the beer.

“ _ I _ am Vincent Valentine.”

Veld pauses, blinks at the bottle in his hands for a long moment as the information sinks in. Once his brain has caught up, he eyes the man beside him more openly than before. 

Vincent Valentine is a name that Veld recognises; anyone in his profession would. 

The thing is, Valentine is an urban myth. The make-believe depiction of an assassin, created by people who have never considered the reality of being on a payroll to murder. Assassins and housewives alike knew him as the  _ Agent of Chaos; _ you cannot predict how and when he will strike, but you can be sure no-one will see him, and no-one will survive. It’s absurd.

Truth be told, Veld isn’t sure he believes Valentine is anything more than gossip to keep the rookies keen. He squints up, taking in the bland expression on the man’s angular features, searching for deception.

If Vincent senses any of Veld’s hesitancy, it doesn’t show on his face. “You do not believe me.”

“I don’t know yet. Tell me your proposition and we’ll see.”

Vincent settles regally onto the sun lounger next to him, cape billowing in the breeze revealing (more?) heavy black fabric underneath. He pulls out an all too familiar floor plan, and Veld grimaces as he recognises the warehouse he intends to visit later.

“You are not the only party that is aware of the guns,” he says with finality. Veld waits for more information, but apparently the man has a penchant for theatrics.

“That’s not surprising considering there’s a contract of assassination floating around the dark web,” Veld agrees. “That doesn’t explain why you’re bothering me.”

Valentine remains unperturbed, “it does not.”

Veld waits again for more information to be shared. He shouldn't be surprised when no further insight is forthcoming, and yet he is.

“Are you going to explain why you’re bothering me?” Despite his best efforts to keep a professional facade, incredulity laces his words. 

This is seemingly enough to satisfy Valentine’s need to be difficult as he begins to explain himself in earnest. “Law enforcement is aware of the sale. There is a sting operation planned this evening."

He scratches his bearded chin in contemplation. That detail was not in the briefing, but then again it wasn't the first time Veld hadn’t been given all the key pieces of information about a mission prior to him taking it. “Do you have any evidence of that?” he questions.

“In a manner of speaking,” Valentine responds, brushing errant hair away from his face. “I have an informant in the system who tipped me off.”

How very unfortunate that there isn’t any tangible evidence to back up his claim.

“I appreciate you may have your doubts, but consider this; I have obtained the access codes that will allow us to enter the warehouse. We will not be detected.” 

Despite Valentine being the one to approach Veld in the first place, everything about his demeanour seems unbothered about Veld’s ultimate decision. It’s a very well trodden path for negotiations, but the man has applied it so skillfully that even Veld is unsure of himself.

Valentine looks out onto the beach and continues, “if we strike together and gather the weapons before the assassination, then there is less opportunity for the goods to be seized by authorities before we can take them. Alternatively, If I am being dishonest and the law enforcement will not be there, then my suggestion simply allows for a smoother operation. There is no risk on your part.”

“No risk, unless you aren’t who you say you are and only interested in taking the reward without earning it.”

Valentine ignores the comment and instead shifts to lean back on the lounger. “It is logical to take the path of least resistance. I have a vehicle on location already and the exit route to Rocket Town accounted for,” Valentine continues, “our escape will be clean, and the distance from Costa Del Sol will allow us to both lay low and send the weapons back to Midgar discreetly. ”

Veld pauses, watching the boat he’s been anticipating as it arrives at the shoreline. Rocket Town certainly isn’t a bad call in terms of shipping the goods back to ShinRa, taking into account it’s history. Frankly He’s a little irritated that he hadn’t considered it himself.

At this point Veld has to concede, if this man isn’t  _ the _ Agent of Chaos then he is, at the least, a very highly skilled copycat.

“Do you still mistrust my words?” Valentine asks.

He does. 

He calls Rufus, the contract owner, to confirm. He learns Valentine has apparently shown interest, but Rufus can’t confirm if he has officially taken the job. Apparently for all that Valentine is renowned for his success record, a clear audit trail was not part of the deal.

It is enough for Veld to decide that the man in front of him would increase his chances of success. When he looks back up from his phone, he spots the slightest frown pulling at Vincent’s brows. It's gone as quickly as it arrived. Veld makes sure to catalogue his behaviour closely. 

If Valentine attempts to renege on their agreement, then he will be ready for it. 

* * *

Valentine does  _ not  _ renege on their agreement, and Veld is definitively not ready for it. 

He finds himself taking cover behind the guns he is trying to steal. 

There is far more security in the warehouse than there should be, and he knows without a doubt that this would have gone badly had he tried to stick with his original plan.

“I have incapacitated the security cameras,” Valentine murmurs in his ear. Veld spots that the cameras are no longer moving and nods, despite the fact that it was not physically possible for Valentine to be able to see him. 

“Good,” Veld responds through the commlink, “and the cops?”

“They will not be a problem if we are swift. There are two armed guards entering the warehouse to your right.”

It takes a little bit of strategic maneuvering, but Veld watches the guards’ reflection in the mirror of a nearby truck to scoot around the crate without being seen. Thankfully they were only passing through.

Things have gone entirely too smoothly so far for his liking. In Veld’s experience, infiltrations only go this well when a true shitstorm is on the horizon. It’s making Veld nervous, which doesn’t read well for the chances of their mission.

He takes a steadying breath and catalogues the best exit routes. It’s likely that when the police become involved later, things will get messy quickly.

“We should stick to stealth for as long as possible. Any additional confrontation will make this very difficult.” Valentine ‘s voice is close in his ear again, however this time Veld feels breath against his neck and he’s responding before he can register the movement. 

He jolts forward and twists, fist close to his center as he swings round. Valentine reaches out and blocks him from under his guard. His good arm is twisted between Valentine’s armpit and his side, effectively immobilizing Veld before can launch into a defensive strike. 

Valentine gazes at him dispassionately, having diffused the attack in less than three seconds. Veld stares back at him with wide eyes, taking in how seemingly thoughtless the exchange was on Valentine’s part. Veld’s arm twinges, and it’s not immediately clear if he can break the hold.

“My apologies. I did not mean to startle you.” 

Veld is released after a moment. He eyes him wearily and does not rub at his neck self consciously. How can a 6 foot man _ in a cape _ sneak around in broad daylight without making so much as a rustle of fabric? 

“We need to get the guns, the longer we stay the more chance we have of being spotted.” He has felt wholly on the backfoot since Valentine appeared at his side like an apparition of the night, not two hours previous. Realising how remarkably quick Valentine’s reflexes are does little to improve his sour mood.

Regardless, completing the mission is the priority - personal squabbles come later.

“Indeed,” Valentine says, stepping back out of Veld’s space and allowing him room to breathe. “We do not have an infinite amount of time.”

It’s a small miracle that no-one else checks in on the guns as they load them into their getaway car, which is a beat up looking pickup truck that doesn't look a step out of place parked at the back of a quiet industrial warehouse on the outskirts of town. 

Veld can’t complain, it’s exactly the type of vehicle he would have chosen himself, based on how entirely unremarkable it was. At the same time, Veld is waiting for the other shoe to drop. He’s been in the game long enough to have a healthy dose of skeptitude when working with others. Moreso when he is working with someone he doesn't know personally.

“Let’s just get this over with,” Veld mutters.

* * *

Hours later, when he’s driving in the pitch black of the night with a truck full of guns without so much as a scratch on him, he wonders if what has really been unnerving him was that Valentine never seemed to share his skepticism. Valentine, who is sitting in the backseat fishing a bullet out of his shoulder that had been  _ intended for Veld  _ like it was nothing, simply accepted Veld's word that he would work with him and split the money fairly.

What was worse, he anticipated Veld’s inability to exercise any measure of faith in their agreement more than Veld himself had.

Veld doesn’t even get the satisfaction of feeling vindicated that his impending sense of doom turned out to be very much on the money. He’d been so focused on making sure that Valentine wasn’t doing anything untoward that he barely noticed the armed officer encroaching on his space. 

Considering they had just sniped the police’s perp dead between the eyes mid sting operation, it made sense that they would be willing to use lethal force. More accurately, the police  _ would _ have taken lethal force, had Valentine not intercepted her before she could take Veld by surprise. 

He had been intending to double check that Valentine hadn’t double crossed him and done a runner, and never heard the approaching officer over the pounding alarm and general disorder. One moment Veld was cautiously poking his head round the corridor into the main cargo area, the next there was a series of bags and muffled thud as an officer fell to the floor on his left.

“I asked you to keep watch of the entrance,” Valentine says with measured patience, as he stood up and re-adjusted his cape with a grimace. He stepped over the unconscious mousy haired girl with the slightest frown pulling at his brow. “Our focus was to escape with minimal conflict.”

Veld started, momentarily dumbfounded, before responding “Let’s go then.”

He hadn't registered anything was amiss until they got to the car and Valentine did not take the driver’s seat as they had planned. “ _ I need to get the bullet out,”  _ he said.  _ “You will need to drive for now.” _

Veld prides himself on being a professional. He has never given a partner any reason to take injury for him. He can only imagine what Valentine thinks of him now. “I’ve got to buy you a beer once we’re done,” he says into the quiet. 

“I do not drink beer,” Valentine responds faintly, shrugging his coat off as best he can with one functional shoulder, “but a whiskey would not be remiss.”

Veld snorts and takes the next exit for Rocket Town. “Whiskey it is then.”

* * *

They arrive at around six pm, after a long day and a half of driving. Valentine spent a good portion of the journey sleeping, and when he wasn’t asleep he was demanding fast food breaks in the middle of nowhere. Veld made to take him to a hospital at some point in the journey, but Valentine firmly told him it would be a wasted trip. He had no intention of allowing records linking him to any medical facility to come into existence. 

They instead agree to meet up at eight pm for a drink and some food, and to sort out the finer details of splitting their pay.

Valentine shows up at eight pm on the dot. The bar has the same pseudo-locally owned ambience that the bars had in upper plate Midgar. It’s clearly trying to imitate under the plate vibes at three times the price; accessible poverty for only the elite.

Veld can’t tell if Valentine has so much as changed his clothes. His cloak covers his frame completely, and frankly it already looked like it had been caught up in a gun fight before they had taken one step into the warehouse in Costa Del Sol. He looks as pale as he did when they first met, and now that Veld thinks about it, just as pale as when he had been shot in the shoulder. 

As Valentine is technically the one to complete the contract, they both agree to transfer the total sum into his account and split it the next day. The less said to Rufus about them working together, the better; lest he use it as an excuse to lower the payout.

Once business is taken care of, Veld feels more relaxed. He insists on paying for the food and drink. Valentine doesn’t fight him on it, which eases some of the nagging compulsion to make things up to him. Not that a meal and some whiskey would cover the debt for getting someone shot. It’s not even close.

Now Veld sits loose-limbed, leaning back against the booth and the wall. They support his weight more than they really should after three beers but neither party brings any attention to it. Valentine has been drinking too, but doesn’t appear to have the same buzz. Perhaps he can’t relax in a setting like this - he wouldn’t be the first to dislike public spaces.

“How’s the shoulder?” 

Valentine doesn’t appear phased by the injury at all and shrugs as he picks up an empty beer bottle and starts to peel back the label. “I will pull through to fight another day.”

At Veld’s nonplussed stare, Valentine offers further comment. “I sought out medical assistance with dressing the wound, though he was somewhat unimpressed with my bloodying his workspace.”

“I thought you didn’t like doctors?”

Valentine arches a brow. “I did not say he is a doctor.” 

That seems to be all he is willing to share on the matter.

“You’re not at all what I expected,” Veld says, sipping his beer and waving down their waitress for another. 

Their waitress, Alice, according to her name tag, gives them a peppy nod and bounces over to the till to add another round to their tab. 

On the opposite side of the booth, Valentine continues to pick at the label of a discarded bottle and stare at his hand. It’s impossible to tell if his stiff posture is a result of his shoulder injury or his personality in general. “What did you expect?” 

“Honestly? I don’t know,” Veld admits. “You’ve got such an outlandish reputation. It makes it hard to distinguish fantasy from reality.” 

Valentine nods, staring at a point just over Veld's shoulder. “I seldom partner with others,” he explains, “those that I have worked with have been somewhat underwhelmed.”

“Underwhelming is not the word I would use.” 

“Most expect more... panache than I provide,” he persists.

Veld shrugs. “Flashy moves aren’t what get the job done at the end of the day. That being said, you turned up looking like something from the abyss, insisting on a casual chat about assassination and undermining local authorities, on a crowded beach. I think you’ve got your own sense of flair.”

Valentine stares at him thoughtfully before responding, “you are the first to express the opinion that I am like a creature of the abyss to my face.” 

The fact that Valentine is aware that people have made comments to the same effect behind his back remains unspoken. 

Veld raises an eyebrow. “I was referring to the hair and the cloak,” he rectifies, “you aren’t toothy enough for a Malborough or Gashtrike I’m afraid, and you don’t smell half as bad either.” 

The corner of Valentine's mouth twitches, and Veld feels his lips twitch in response. Their waitress drops by with another round, throwing paper towels down before placing a stout beer and a glass of whiskey down on the table. 

Valentine nods at her in thanks. She asks Veld if they need anything else but clearly doesn’t expect him to say yes, as she’s already walking away well in advance of his shake of the head. Veld feels the blood pump in his temples at the action and picks up the new bottle with a sigh, blearily squinting at the alcohol percentage on the bottle in suspicion.

“You are also not what I anticipated.”

Veld raises an eyebrow in question, “Oh? Not quick enough on my feet? Because I feel the need to tell you this contract was not my finest performance.” He gestures at Valentine’s shoulder, who in turn reaches up as if to touch it, but thinks better of it and drops his hand again. 

“Your performance was fine. There were many elements at play and I know I can be unsettling to work with. You are far less formal than you were when we met.”

Veld frowns. Valentine casually took a bullet for him since then, formalities seemed frivolous. “Of course, I am. We’re having drinks, we’re not on the job. There’s no need.”

“You were preparing to attack me with an empty bottle when we first spoke and now you are comfortable enough to buy my drinks for me.” Valentine points out. Veld thinks he can hear a tinge of humour in his response

“You didn’t miss that then?”

Valentine nods and there is definitely some laughter behind his eyes. “There is very little I miss when it comes to combat.”

Veld realises that he has been leaning forward as he’s been trying to get a better read on Valentine . He flops back against the booth. 

“You took me by surprise,” he confesses, “I said I was going to trust you and I didn’t. I’m the reason that things didn’t go to plan and you were the one that ended up paying the price. I, well - I don’t like that I let you down.” Veld can confidently say he’s never behaved like that on a job before, and if he’s honest with himself he was intimidated by Valentine’s seemingly unshakable confidence on the field.

Valentine nods in understanding and takes a sip of his drink. “I do not consider you to have let me down, but please consider yourself absolved of any slights if that is what you need.” 

The response is earnest. If Veld had received a shot wound and someone else’s expense, he isn’t sure he would find it so easy to forgive. 

Veld is pulled out of his thoughts by a gentle brush of skin against his fingers. Vincent is hesitant at first, seeming to debate it before committing to lying his hand on his arm, which causes the hairs on his neck to rise and sends his stomach into unexpected flutters.

“You seem to be under the illusion that I acted under duress. You were my partner, would you not have done the same for me had you been in the same position?”

Veld looks down at the pale, cool hand resting on his forearm before looking back up at the man in front of him. Valentine is considering his expression earnestly and Veld feels the flutter twist. The heat of it takes him aback, and Veld pulls his hands away under the guise of taking his new bottle of beer.

“Of course,” he murmurs quietly, taking a timid sip. 

When he looks back at the dark haired man, he feels a sense of excited anticipation to see that he is still regarding him intently. 

“Then it is of little consequence.”

Then Valentine is staring out at the people in the bar and Veld releases a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. 

It’s late and people are getting loud. There are a group of women in expensive dresses laughing and falling over each other as they make their way through a seemingly endless stream of champagne.

Veld hears a loud  _ “It’s my birthday! I want birthday shots!” _ from behind him, and Valentine’s eyes track the birthday girl in question as she stumbles around behind him. Veld can’t read anything in his gaze other than sharp observation. 

Whilst his attention is elsewhere, Veld takes the opportunity to really scrutinise the man in front of him. He’s unnervingly still as he watches the group, but they don’t seem to pick up on his presence. There’s little doubt in his mind that Valentine could sit there all night without being noticed if he didn’t want to be. Veld feels envy tugging at him. It’s a very valuable skill.

_ “Shots! Shots! Shots! _ ” 

When Veld refocuses his attention back to the present, dark red eyes are now assessing him and he forces out a strained smile, feeling inexplicably caught.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” he tries to deflect. 

Vincent blinks at him so slowly, it's almost coy. “Does that bother you?”

Veld puts his bottle back on the table, time to stop for now. His cheeks are warm which never bodes well for anyone. 

_ “Look at you two handsome gentlemen! How about a shot with the birthday girl?” _

Vincent stares at him dumbly as a shot glass of green liquid is pushed into his hands. Veld wants to snicker at the silent confused plea in his deep eyes as he takes his designated shot glass.

It’s not Veld’s normal post-job celebration but why the hell not? Nothing about the past couple of days has been normal. 

_ “Here’s to being fucking 43 and single! 3, 2, 1: Bottoms up!” _

Hangover be damned, come tomorrow they can split the money and split ways for good at the least.

* * *

They don’t split ways for good - not even for a little while. 

It is all very innocuous to begin with. Valentine mentioned that he is heading for Junon and the stars must truly be aligned; Veld’s next contract will also head that way. Given that they have both spent the night drinking together (and Valentine had in fact taken a bullet for him), it’s only logical for them to combine their resources for the journey. Only until they got to Junon of course.

Except somehow Junon comes and goes but they never part ways. Veld finds he doesn’t mind too much - selfishly it’s easier working with Valentine, his contracts are completed in less time with less complications. He is making more money purely on the basis that they can burn through more contracts in the same space of time.

Who knows what Valentine is getting out of it. He seems content with their set up, and Veld now knows him well enough that he can confidently say that Valentine would not be here if he doesn’t want to be.

A couple of days turn into a couple of months, and somewhere along the way they go from temporary colleagues to a fully fledged working partnership. 

Naturally, there are things they learn about each other through the months that they work together. Some obvious: don’t shake the trained assassin awake in the middle of the night without expecting a bloody nose in recompense. Other lessons are less expected: Vincent does not drink caffeine and has a very strict evening routine which involves meticulously detangling his hair before bed, regardless of the fact that it will be back to an untamable mess by morning. 

Veld is positive he isn’t the only one learning new things about his partner. In fact, when Vincent first discovers Veld’s prosthetic, his expression is the closest to ruffled he’s seen on the man's face since meeting him. Vincent isn’t the first person to be uncomfortable with his disability, even if it has never impacted his ability to do his job. Sure, it sometimes impacts his ability to operate a can opener, but on the plus side, his punches are solid.

“I didn’t know you had a prosthetic,” Vincent admits later that evening.

“Why would you? It’s more advantageous for me to keep it hidden.”

Despite any unease Vincent may feel, Veld is shocked the first time that Vincent appears with a hot compress for his shoulder when it gets stiff in the cold. He is surprised even more so when he helps to stretch out the joint to maintain mobility.

Slowly they settle into a rhythm, both on and off the clock. There are things that experience taught them; they work better with Vincent at range and Veld taking close combat. Both prefer stealthy approaches and Vincent favours his left hand side in combat, whereas Veld favours his right.

The thing that turns out to be the true revelation however, is that Veld learns it is possible to work with someone so well with so little effort. The cynic in him wonders when it will all come crashing down, but they have made it thus far without imploding. 

Veld just needs to accept a good thing when it comes into his life. Nothing is going to go wrong.

* * *

“Oh god, no. Please don’t go for that,” Veld mutters around the deep fried carrot he is chewing. He’s staring over Vincent’s shoulder, who is already looking for more contracts to fulfil. “We should go for something more local.” 

Not that he cares that much about his next job at the moment. He has just returned with takeout and the smell is making him realise just how hungry he is.

Vincent looks up from the screen and frowns quizzically. His already pale face is underlit by a wash of blue light, making the shadows under eyes and already sharp features look cartoonishly vampiric. Veld shakes his head with an amused smile and reaches over Vincent's head to turn the desk lamp on. “You really don’t help yourself, do you?”

“The hedge fund embezzler outweighs all others in terms of pay.” Vincent says.

He’s not wrong. It is better paid. By a significant amount too. 

“Yeah,” Veld says, leaning over again to look at the screen, brushing away unruly strands of Vincent’s hair mindlessly as they tickle his stubble. “But we’ve got to actually get there, the prep is going to be time-consuming and you just know those rich kids are going to have a tonne of security detail. It’ll be a nightmare no matter what we do.”

Vincent is still looking up at him when Veld glances back to his face, however his lip is pursed and it’s clear that he’s unimpressed. “Do you doubt we can complete the contract?”

Veld rolls his eyes and goes back clicking through the contracts available. “You know that’s not what I mean. Our past four contracts have been back to back and all of them have been an absolute clusterfuck, for lack of a better word.”

Vincent taps the pen against the paper he has been jotting notes on. He claims that he prefers analogue over digital. The reality is Vincent is a technophobe who can barely operate his phone beyond making calls. 

“You are tired.” Vincent brushes away his hand and closes the browser. It must be colder outside than Veld had realised because Vincent, the man with the worst circulation he has ever known, has warmer hands than him. 

“So are you,” Veld points out, straightening up to retrieve the bags he’d placed on the bed. “You’re just not willing to admit it. So yes, I’ll jump on the pity party wagon if it gives us a break; I’m exhausted.” 

Vincent looks solemnly back at the now blank screen, and Veld _knows_ he’s unjustly placing blame on himself. He steps back and kicks the back of Vincent’s chair with a stern thud. “Look, if I didn’t want to do the other jobs I would have said so. Food is here and your TV show is about to start. We can worry about what we’re going to do tomorrow.”

Vincent’s head snaps round, and Veld is rewarded with a dark scowl. “It’s not _my_ show,” he says as he gets up to turn on the TV. 

Veld smirks; Vincent can be downright theatrical when it comes to certain topics (TV included). It’s hard to compute that anyone would consider him to lack “flourish” in any sense of the word. 

He grabs the spare pillows from the wardrobe to craft a makeshift sofa on one of the beds. It’s the best they’re going to get from a cheap hotel - they've certainly made do with worse in the past.

They’ve been watching Chocobo Chasers for a while, it’s an obstacle course-come-game show that rewards those with dumb luck and a willingness to make a fool of themselves on TV. Vincent maintains there’s no entertainment to be had in it, but still turns it on at 5:15pm every Thursday and offers ‘constructive’ commentary on how to get the best time when scaling a wall and being pelted by eggs.

_“Welcome to Chocobo Chasers. Tonight I’ll be answering some of the toughest questions of a generation; ‘Why would you stand up when that thing is coming back round?’, ‘Did that guy lose a tooth just now?’ and ‘Do you think they realise there isn’t any prize money?’ It’s hard hitting stuff, ladies and gents: I can hardly bear it.”_

Vincent has already settled on the bed, tutting at the campy intro and turning up the volume, as if he’s not aware they’re about to watch 40 minutes of people being chased around obstacle courses by 6 foot men in Chocobo costumes.

Veld is pulling the boxes of food out of the bag and placing them so that there will be enough space for him when he sits down. He holds out a fork which Vincent gently takes from his hand.

“What did you order?” Vincent asks, shaking his head in polite refusal of the spoon that Veld is offering.

It’s one of many unspoken patterns they have fallen into. To put it bluntly, Vincent is by far the least “people friendly” of the two. Ordering food, booking hotel rooms and chatting up the locals for information are tasks that Veld has taken up. 

Considering it’s all part and parcel to the job that Veld did before he met Vincent, it doesn’t feel like a chore. Vincent has never outright said it, but it’s clear that he never felt the same way. There is definitely a sense of relief in his expression every time he is saved from the pressures of small talk. However, in return he took his fair share of planning and executing operations. 

It was also hugely beneficial that Vincent was a force to be reckoned with when it came to contracts. Veld had never felt so taken care of from a financial perspective.

“Wutain.”

Vincent nods his head ceremoniously in approval. “Have you acquired dumplings?” 

Veld throws him a playfully irritated look, knowing full well that Vincent would exclusively eat Wutai Dumplings for the rest of his life if he could. “What do you take me for? Of course, I did.”

They settle together comfortably as a woman is forcefully ejected from a ledge into a swimming pool by a giant foam pendulum. “I don’t care how much padding they put on that thing, she’s going to bruise like a peach.” 

“If she had not hesitated, it would not be a problem for her.” Vincent reaches over to grab the coveted box of meat filled dumplings. 

Their thighs touch and it becomes the only thing Veld can think about. There’s no room to process anything else; his brain is white noise.

He realises the bed is still. Vincent has paused and is examining him closely with dark eyes, his gaze flicking to his mouth briefly. Veld swallows, conscious of the keen gaze tracking the movement of his throat. He is peripherally aware of the sound of clown horns and a laughter track, but shadows are flickering along Vincent’s profile and all he can take in is the embers in his gaze.

Then Vincent leans back with the box in hand, but he stays close and doesn't break physical contact. It is purposeful. It has to be. Veld _wants_ it to be purposeful. He has officially lost the plot.

If he has, neither seem to mind. 

* * *

It is during a job a month later that Veld realises something has changed. 

Vincent has been on edge. It has been growing steadily over the past few jobs they’d taken, so Veld had opted for slightly longer breaks between contracts to compensate. 

He insisted that they deserved to blow some of the hard earned cash they’d been making - plus, if he was honest with himself, it wasn’t like he hated spending time relaxing. Vincent’s idea of a good time was a game of poker and glass of hard liquor, he was the cheapest date Veld had.

However, something about this job specifically is bringing out a sense of irritation from the normally quiet man. From the moment they enter the building his shoulders are tense, like he’s ready to strike at anyone who gives him half the change. 

It’s the first time he’s ever behaved this way on a job. Veld figures, it’s most likely due to the fact that it’s so far out of his comfort zone. There’s no way Vincent would have taken a job with so much cyberespionage. The emphasis of the issue being on the cyber.

It’s the only explanation as to why Vincent is agitatedly staring out at the city from the windows, readjusting his stance continually. They are in one of the many sleek, monochromatic skyscrapers in the financial district of upper plate, Midgar. 

They had opted for stealth, as per Vincent’s instance; knowing that the tech company has state of the art security that neither of them want to mess with. Everything has gone to plan so far, of course, but the pressure of the situation was tangible. If they are caught it’s game over. It’s not the sort of job that you can shoot your way out of if things get sticky.

They manage to infiltrate the office relatively easily, Veld is clearly a man who is comfortable wearing a suit and well maintained facial hair as his only disguise. Vincent however is less at ease out of his usual caped crusader get up. That being said, when he finally tamed his hair into a low ponytail and wrestled himself into his jacket it was quite the transformation.

He could easily have been a contestant in one of those god awful shows where they threw a small army of young, attractive women and men on an island and asked them to publicly rank each other on looks alone. 

Vincent had already procured key cards to get them into the office of the Vice chairman of accounting and finance before entering the building. Veld doesn’t have the heart to tell him the door was already open when they arrived, it’s probably about the only thing he will be contributing for the rest of the evening.

All Veld needs to do now is get into the desktop without tripping any nasty surprises on them. He glances up at Vincent, who is in turn pacing the room like an agitated mother hen.

“There’s nothing you can do now. You might as well be useful and keep watch for any unexpected visitors.” 

Vincent doesn’t seem particularly offended by his dismissal. If anything he seems thankful to have a task that he can confidently complete. They both know he doesn’t have a hope of getting anything they need out of the computer.

Veld rifles through the drawers on the desk, hoping for some sort of notebook or loose paper that would help him with getting the login details. He’s spent a good 10 minutes having a look through before he spots something that made him feel particularly stupid. A sticky note stuck to the screen literally has the username and password. Vincent would have spotted that in seconds.

When he moves the mouse he cringes even further; the screen isn't even locked, just asleep. 

They are looking for incriminating tax returns and details of illegally acquired cryptocurrencies. Apparently this board member is the most likely to be the weakest link, (which is definitely the case as there are a large number of files saved to his desktop.)

Rather than waste time manually vetting through the documents he saves a copy of any of the files that look promising to a hard drive. He’s not been there even five minutes when suddenly there is a lot of noise headed their way. 

Vincent is taking purposeful strides towards him. Veld goes to hide in the ensuite but is pulled backwards with a soft “no,” murmured in his ear. The next thing he knows, they are in a narrow, dark space. He is sandwiched between Vincent and a door, chest to chest. Veld can feel soft breath tickling his neck and all at once, the white noise is back.

_ We’re in a coat closet, _ his mind helpfully supplies after a moment.

“Which office is it again?” A young, airy voice echoes around them. “I can’t remember! Mr Leung said he won’t wait for us if the taxi arrives!” 

Veld has to resist the temptation to turn toward the voices that sound on the other side of the door. Instead, he scrutinises Vincent, who in turn holds them both still, eyes trained on the crack in the door. 

“He’s joking, Amy. Calm down. That’s the one,” a second girl says, over loud chatter. There must have been four or five of them in the group. It suddenly makes sense why Vincent steered them away from the toilet, considering how tipsy they sound. Bathrooms tended to attract the drunk girls for some reason. Veld never understood why.

Vincent wraps an arm around Veld’s torso to the small of his back, bringing them closer together in the already close space. Veld finds himself grabbing onto Vincent's jacket without thought. Vincent may have turned to look down at him, but Veld can’t see any of his expression in the darkness. He can only feel the warmth of his proximity. 

“Hey, is this door supposed to be locked?” 

The atmosphere is sucked out of the small space at the sound of a doorknob jiggling. He can feel the muted rattle against his back. Vincent tightens his hold.

Veld’s own breath catches as he realises the door wasn’t locked. Vincent had reached behind him to hold it closed.

They are so utterly still, all Veld can hear is the thumping of blood in his ears. Vincent’s hand gently grips him, as if preparing to swivel them round if it comes to a confrontation. 

Veld probably should have been more concerned about their cover potentially being blown, but here he is, looking up at Vincent with nothing but stars in his eyes and thoughts of pulling the man down by the tie and falling into a very inadvisable cliche.

“Who cares? It’s just a closet. Jessica, I found Mr. Leung’s Credit card; let’s go get that champagne!” 

There is a lot of tittering and cheering as the girls leave to return to their office party, but neither men move until the room has long fallen into silence again.

The door opens a touch, and the light of the room mutedly illuminates their proximity. He doesn’t know what his expression reveals as Vincent looks down at him, but whatever it is, it seems to stir something behind his eyes. 

Vincent’s crimson gaze ducks from his face and settles on Veld's shoulder. His grip relaxes it’s hold on his arm, but he looks more tense than ever.

“We should wrap this up,” Veld suggests quietly into the shadows.

“We should.” 

* * *

Veld realises that he vastly prefers being too hot over being too cold.

The cold is sharp against his cheeks as he pushes against the wind. Even wearing thermals, Veld feels the cold biting at his bones as he crosses the parking lot and makes his way into the fluorescence of the convenience store. 

He’s already regretting the trip outside, knowing that he will have to go back into the cold _again_ to pick up the take out before returning to the inn.

They have been in Icicle for a week and it has remained thoroughly unwelcoming from the moment they arrived. His shoulder is hurting again. Veld wants a heat pad and at least 2 beers in his life before he goes to bed tonight.

He enters the store and makes his way straight to the pharmacy aisle, nodding at the girl behind the counter stiffly. They must not see many visitors in these parts because she gawks at him unsubtly, her eyes fixed on the scar that graces his left cheek. The cold tends to exaggerate its jagged edges, most of the time people barely notice. Or maybe he’s stopped noticing when other people notice.

Veld grabs a handful of heated pads and waddles toward the next aisle. A shake of his head clears the melting snow that’s beginning to trickle down his nape and back. His bobble hat wobbles in grumpy disagreement of the motion.

He reaches out to grab a bar of chocolate, knocking another five or six onto the floor with his bulky winter coat as he does so. He takes a deep breath and looks up at the ceiling panels, gathering the patience and the will to bend down and pick them up.

The girl at the counter doesn’t say a thing when she runs his items up and instead chooses to further irritate Veld with her big bambi eyes and slack jaw expression. 

At the very least, the takeaway has the decency to be ready to go when Veld gets back to the restaurant foyer. 

Having to step up and over the snow makes his journey back to the hotel feel tedious, when in actuality it was only a few minutes walk or so. Both Vincent and himself have already agreed they won’t be coming back here if they can help it. The extreme cold renders Veld’s arm completely impossible to work with. You don’t get that many jobs for a spy located in the Snow Fields of the Icicle, so he’s never had to worry about the extreme cold before.

It’s been a long time since Veld has truly felt like a lame duck. The sooner they get back to a nice, temperate climate, the sooner he can get back to a full night’s uninterrupted sleep and full function in his upper body. Vincent hasn’t complained once about having to do all of the work this week, but it’s clear that he is hellbent on wrapping things up today so they can leave tomorrow.

It’s full dark when Veld gets back to the room. He sighs at the burning warmth against his ears as he enters and drops the takeout bag on the table by the door.

He’s greeted by the silhouette of Vincent’s back against the window. He sits in the dark, staring out into the snow in his usual creeper fashion. 

“You’re back early,” Veld says, shrugging out of his puffy jacket and heading into the bathroom. His arm has now completely seized up with the cold. He really shouldn’t have gone out in the first place, but he wanted to have food by the time Vincent got back. “Can you dish up dinner while I sort out my arm? And turn a damn light on!”

He hip checks the door to the bathroom closed, hoping that the old lock wasn’t going to get all ornery on him again. 

Veld runs a bath, letting the steam loosen up the tension in his back and shoulders. He’s tempted to jump in quickly before food, but decides against it. Instead, he runs it so hot that the room is steamy and he can feel sticky heat in his lungs. When they’re done with food, it will make for a punishingly hot affair. He can’t wait.

Compromising, Veld rips open a hot compress and undoes the top few buttons on his shirt. He presses the material against his neck and shoulder, enjoying the feeling of thawing out. 

The bathroom, much like the rest of the hotel, is a gaudy art-deco affair of burnt orange and brown. In Veld’s opinion, it’s a terrible colour palette for a bathroom in particular as it doesn’t do much to sell the illusion that the room has been cleaned in its lifetime. 

Veld drops the various medical supplies (mainly heat pads and painkillers) on the countertops listening out for the tell tale sign of Vincent hovering at the door in an attempt to be helpful. Veld normally doesn’t mind too much, but this week has been an exercise in patience for them both. Veld had snapped at Vincent a fair few times this week out of sheer exasperation at being benched by the snow of all things.

He can hear the TV so Veld assumes that Vincent is too hungry to wait. With all the late nights and early mornings he’s been pulling, it’s understandable. 

Veld waits until he can move his shoulder semi-comfortably before buttons his shirt back up and attempts to leave the bathroom. Thankfully the door is not in a cantankerous mood, and opens with little fuss. Steam billows out into the room, which now feels cold in comparison.

Veld frowns. The room is still dark, and the take out is still sitting untouched by the door. “Vince?”

He hasn’t moved from his place on the bed. Beneath him, there is a growing dark puddle where water is dripping from his clothes. Veld is in front of him before he registers that he has moved, and oh god, that’s _not_ water.

“Vincent? What happened?”

Looking at his face, Veld barely recognises the man in front of him. There’s so much blood that he can scarcely see unblemished skin. It’s dripping from Vincent’s eyelashes and trickling down his chin. 

“Vincent,” Veld repeats sternly, and Vincent’s gaze moves to rest on his face. “Tell me what happened.”

Vincent shrugs and gore slips from a crevice in his coat and splats against the mustard carpet. “I was intercepted during my approach.”

Veld reaches out to turn the lamp on. The light does not make the sight in front of him any better. “Are you hurt?”

“I am fine.”

Veld reaches out to wipe away some of the blood from his eyes and Vincent shrinks back. “Do we need to go?”

Vincent shakes his head in dismissal. “There is no-one left to seek us out.”

Veld nods, contemplating their next steps before he stands tall again, grabbing Vincent’s hand forcefully to pull him to his feet. “Come on, you're staining the sheets.” Vincent follows him compliantly into the bathroom and stands stock still as Veld tugs at his jacket and throws it in the sink.

Veld is quietly amazed to learn that Vincent was truthful when he said he was physically unharmed.

He sits, propped against the edge of the tub, as Veld unties his shoes and shuffles them off his feet. The water is still probably much hotter than is comfortable when Vincent sinks into the tub in only his underwear. His grip on Veld’s arm is crushing, luckily said arm is coprised of plastic and metal.

“I do not want to do this anymore,” Vincent says quietly into the condensation. The heat of the water is crawling up his pale neck in angry red splotches.

Veld gently used a cloth to wipe away the grime on his forehead. “Then don’t.”

Vincent looks up at the ceiling, the water around him is already turning a mottled red-brown, and timidly places his hand over Veld's, before pulling his hand away from his face. Veld watches quietly, unsure of what Vincent plans to do next.

He slowly moves his hand down to his chest, pulling insistently so that Veld’s hand sits against his skin to expose a litany of scars on his chest. 

Veld has had his fair share of wounds, and the large ragged scar in the centre of his chest gives him pause. That was the scar of a man who had narrowly escaped death, clinging on through the pain to see another day. 

“Lucrecia Crescent was my first contract,” Vincent mutters. “It did not go well.”

Veld observes quietly, taking in as Vincent absently rubs at the raised borders of dark red skin wistfully. “She was a scientist working for a biomedical company; her work was revolutionary, but also directly fed into a senior scientists’ unethical practices which included human experimentation. There were a multitude of contracts on her head; I was one of many to try and claim the contract.”

“She survived?”

“No,” Vincent replies, the weight of his thought pulling at the curve of his mouth. “She died.”

Veld is itching to probe further, but seeing Vincent so raw and exposed helps him resist the urge to push further.

After a moment, Vincent closes his eyes and sinks under the water. The bathroom is quiet, save the sounds of water sloshing against the porcelain, until Vincent emerges again. His hair is limp around his face, but his skin is now a peach colour, rather than rust. 

When red eyes finally meet him, Veld knows Vincent is not capable of sharing any more of his wounds. Instead, Veld takes the opportunity to reach out and cup Vincent's face. “Whatever happened then is done - you are here now. You can’t control the past, Vincent, so don’t let it control you.”

All is quiet again until Vincet reaches up to brush his fingers against his hand, “Thank you.”

The takeout remains untouched. They leave before the sun rises.

* * *

They decide they need a break from work; a real one. Something more than a weekend where they simply don’t check out of their hotel until a few days after they had originally planned to. 

They have both been living out of motels and cheap hostels, going from job to job for the better part of a year. Veld can’t quite believe it when he realizes that neither of them have a place to call home, but enough money to buy multiple mansions anywhere on the map. 

And of course, their last job had ended abruptly, to say the least. They don’t need to talk it through to know that they both don’t have any plans to return to Icicle.

Veld is paying for gas and sacks while Vincent fills up their second hand car somewhere outside Gongaga, enjoying the warm air on his skin, when he notices the sign:

**_When Life Gets You Down, The Golden Saucer Will Lift You Back Up!_ **

He scratches at his stubbly chin and idly wonders what Vincent would think of it. He flicks his dark gaze over to Vincent, who is putting the nozzle of the pump back into the holder and staring up into the overcast sky. 

“Are y’all doing the cosmo freeway?” the teenager asks from behind the register, chewing his gum obnoxiously. 

“Sorry?” Veld asks as he rummages through his jeans for extra change. 

The kid rocks back on his chair with that lazy smirk that screams of the arrogance only a 16 year old can muster. “The Cosmo Freeway? Route 14? It takes you right from Gongaga, through the Ancient Forest to Cosmo Canyon, and then over to the Golden Saucer.” 

Veld stares at him blankly. 

“You were looking at the poster so I just figured that’s what you were doing. Why else would you be out here in the middle of nowhere?” the boy asks. Veld continues to stare expectantly until the kid flushes and rings up his total, looking dejected.

Veld smirks and takes a free map from the stand as he leaves.

“How do you feel about a road trip?” he asks, as he sits down in the passenger seat. “I fancy going to the Golden Saucer, and apparently there’s a few local hotspots to see on the way.”

“Road trips of this nature require soft top sports cars, do they not?” The question is asked so earnestly, Veld can’t help but chuckle.

“Only for those who give a damn. Otherwise I’d say their suspension is terrible and getting over speed bumps is a nightmare.” 

There’s relief on the taller man’s face at Veld’s response, which makes him smile. Vincent fiddles with the radio, bypassing the music stations to listen to a radioplay. “How long will it take?” He asks.

“However long we want it to.”

Vincent blinks at him slowly and admits he’s never been to the Golden Saucer, which is what seals the deal.

* * *

They arrive at the Golden Saucer two months later; after taking a ‘detour’ to North Corel just to see what was there (not very much). Corel is vastly different to the glamour and glitz of Midgar. Vincent did point out that you can’t spend a night under the stars and actually see the stars in Midgar, so perhaps glitz is overrated.

Veld has finally got his ‘summer tan’ and has taken on the stylings of the country with enthusiasm, embracing the khaki life with no plan on looking back. Vincent, predictably, still looks like he has just escaped from his crypt, except now he has a dusting of pink over his nose and cheeks where he has caught the sun.

The Golden Saucer is a pandemonium of sights, smells and sounds. People are bustling from stall to stall, vendor’s luring customers in with bright clothes and warm smiles. Overhead, the cheerful plodding of a brass band dulls the various sounds of the crowd: excited chatter, laughter and screaming.

“It feels like I am a contender on _Chocobo Chasers_.” Vincent intones, stepping around a mother who is trying to drag her wailing child out of sight and deal with the tantrum in a semi-private place.

“You should enjoy it here then,” Veld responds, passing him an entry ticket. “The purpose of this place is to eat food, try not to bring it back up during rides and spend as much money on cheap souvenirs as your conscience will allow.”

Vincent raises an eyebrow and plucks the ticket out of his hands. “Sounds enchanting.”

There are multi colored banners greeting them as they enter the attraction, chaperoning the pair to the toilets by the entrance to make sure they can maximise the number of opportunities for spending money.

Vincent is already scowling at a red haired man who shouts, “Yo, you’ve got the wrong costume on; it’s not Halloween yet!” before snickering and running off.

Veld lays a hand on Vincent’s arm. “Don’t let some punk ruin your day before it’s started.” Vincent halfheartedly glares at him, pointedly bringing his attention to Veld’s hand on his arm, before plucking it up like a soiled rag and tossing it away from his person. 

Veld raises both eyebrows in mock-exasperation, but amusement curves his lips.

Once Vincent has been given the map, some of the tension in his shoulders relax as he spends a few moments looking over the floor plan of the park. “I would advise skipping ‘the jungles of Gon-googoo-gaga’ and making our way toward ‘Materia Meadows’, unless you would prefer to spend the morning surrounded by children under the age of 7?”

They both agree that neither want to spend any time in the children section, and instead make their way to a ride called, 'The Haunting Mythril Manor'. Vincent maintains this is to give them the best chance of seeing as many attractions before the day is over, but Veld has a sneaking suspicion that Vincent intends to camouflage himself and spirit away. 

As it turns out, ‘The Haunting of Mythril Manor’ turns out to be an optical illusion more than it is a ride, wherein the guests are invited to sit at a decayed ‘feast’ however their table and chairs are a swing mechanism within a rotating room, which creates the illusion of turning upside down. 

Vincent grabs Veld’s hand in surprise when they first tilt. Veld looks over, feeling affection washing over him at seeing him sheepishly dropping it back into his lap and staring at the goblet on the table in front of him when he realises his overreaction.

Veld actually finds that he feels a little queasy when they get off the ride so they decide to take a walk. 

It’s not long until they spot a series of games stalls. A tall, broad man in a striped suit and dark sunglasses waves them over. It’s a gun range, filled with bottles and cans with targets as well as animatronics to shoot. He sees Vincent and seems to think he’s found his next sale. 

“How good are your shooting skills, sir? Do you wager you could beat our top score for a Giant Ifrit plushie?”

“It would make a great present for your...” the bald man takes Veld in, “friend.”

Vincent eyes the set up with a judgmental expression, taking in the number of targets, the lack of distance and the fact that there is no timer. “I am surprised you have any Ifrits left at all, if this is the level of challenge you offer.”

The man's smile is thin, as if he’s not quite able to ignore the unintentional trash talk. “Not just anyone can beat our top score, you need to be an expert marksman to win.”

“I am an expert marksman,” Vincent counters.

“Then how could you possibly lose?”

Veld would like to think that Vincent can see the man’s manipulation, and is in fact humouring him. However, Vincent picks up a toy gun and appears to be assessing its weight, so perhaps not.

Vincent hands over 10 Gil and adjusts his stance in preparation. 

“Good luck,” the vendor says with complete insincerity. 

Vincent releases his shots like the master assassin he is; with rapid fire and with steady hands. He sweeps the range in an orderly fashion, getting the moving targets out of the way first. 

Each target dings loudly as each pellet hits dead centre, however Vincent is hitting them at such a speed that the next ding has started before the previous has died out. It becomes a prolonged, agonised groan. Vincent’s face is blank with focus, and the vendor’s mouth is open, slack with surprise. A couple stop in their tracks to watch.

Within twenty seconds, Vincent has cleared the stall.

The couple whoop and clap behind him and Veld can feel his lips curving in amusement. Others may not see the smug satisfaction in Vincent’s movement as he places the gun back in its holster, but Veld certainly does.

“Oh my God, you’re amazing!” Someone shouts from behind.

The game master, having now recovered from his shock, adjusts his pinstripe suit and clears his throat. “Ah - unlucky my friend, you seem to have missed one.” 

Sitting on the top shelf to the left, a can sits innocently. Upright and seemingly untouched. Vincent studies the can intently, knowing he hit his target, before turning back to the man. 

“This game is rigged,” Vincent says simply, and the game master smiles at him with a slither of ill-will seeping through. 

“Perhaps you’re not as good of a shot as you thought you were, sir.”

Vincent readjusts his cloak primly, “that is not the case. You are a liar.”

Veld can’t stop the snicker that escapes his lips, and Vincent rounds on him like a wounded animal, betrayal etched into his features. 

“It is rigged,” he insists.

“Of course it is,” Veld says with a smirk, “how else would they make their money?”

Meanwhile the game master has moved onto his next target - a family of four with two young brothers, both ready to prove who is the ‘expert’ marksman.

In an extraordinary display of pettiness, Vincent glowers and picks up the gun and fires the remaining allocation of shots on the can, each pellet hitting dead centre and bouncing off ineffectually.

Veld moves them on promptly, just in case Vincent decides to take aim at the vendor and get them kicked out of the park.

"You are a fraud," Vincent accuses as he is tugged away, but ultimately doesn’t fight Veld.

They settle on checking out what looks to be a series of ledges that are shaped to resemble a giant tree at the center of the park. Once they’ve found a quiet spot they decide to share an ice cream and people watch as the sun slowly fades into the horizon. 

They stand shoulder to shoulder as they look out onto the park below. Veld can feel heat along his side from where they touch however, he realises Vincent is having great trouble keeping his hair from wrapping around his face in the wind whilst eating. 

In the end, Veld finds himself holding out the ice cream to allow Vincent to lean down and hold his hair back as he eats. Not dignified in the slightest, but it keeps his wily locks clean. 

He snickers unapologetically watching the situation unfold, until Vincent locks eyes with him mid-lick, and suddenly he feels like the floor has been swept from under his feet. Fire scorches unrepentantly in his stomach at the very knowing glint in his maroon eyes.

Veld avoids eye contact during the rest of the exchange with hot cheeks. “So, what do you think of the Golden Saucer?”

Vincent shrugs noncommittally, unperturbed as ever, wiping at the corner of his mouth delicately. “It is very busy. Not somewhere I would ever have pictured myself.”

“It can be a bit much,” Veld acknowledges, interlacing his fingers and leaning over against the railing. “I guess I just thought this trip could be a reset for you after - well, you know. You said in Icicle you didn't want to do this anymore. If you want to do something new, nothing is stopping you - least of all me. You can live your life however you want to.”

“Although I do not like crowded spaces, nor the rides, or those petty excuses for games,” Vincent pauses, untangling Veld’s fingers with a gentle tug, “I do enjoy spending time with you.” 

At some point Vincent has taken a step closer. “Veld, _you_ have been my reset, not the Ancient Forest, or Cosmo Canyon. They are simply places.”

He tilts Veld’s chin up to face him with a delicate hand, the one that wasn’t holding his own. Vincent’s gaze is intense enough that there is no misunderstanding his intentions. “I want my time, however I spend it, to be with you.”

Veld finds himself fixated on the smooth lines of Vincent’s lips; they are surprisingly soft-looking and inviting; something that Veld had never noticed before. Then again, he had never before had reason to be so close. 

When their noses touch, Veld tilts his head and surges forward. 

The world becomes white noise once more when Vincent firmly presses lips against his. He feels the tickle of hair brushing against his neck. His stomach jols with dizziness at the tentative persistence of their lips yielding to each other.

He feels the urge to push onward, to bury his fingers in dark hair and demand for more, but he instead enjoys the relaxed, comfort of Vincent’s cloak shielding them from wind and the hand that has fallen to his hip. 

No need to rush, they have time.

He’s not sure when he closed his eyes, but Veld can feel the beginnings of a truly goofy smile growing when they open as Vincent pulls away. 

“I’m not some floozy, you know; it’s not official until we’ve gone out for an actual dinner.”

Vincent holds his hand and turns back to the park with a sombre nod and fond eyes. “Then you had better be ready to dine at Seven.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hit me up on tumblr!


End file.
